


Nanowrimo Project

by SometimesyougettheBear



Category: Original Work, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-01 11:51:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5204837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SometimesyougettheBear/pseuds/SometimesyougettheBear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Nanowrimo, I have decided to start writing a series of short stories. Some will center around Stiles and Derek, but I welcome others from different fandoms (particularly NCIS or the Sentinel).</p><p>Here's the deal: Every time I post, I will welcome comments asking me to write a story about whatever comments or original characters they choose. The commenter  can choose the situation/parameters of the story. I particularly like writing stories about science fiction or high fantasy. I prefer unhappy endings or morally ambiguous ones.</p><p>2) The story will be less than 1,000 words</p><p>3) A new story will come out every week</p><p> </p><p>First story: Sex robots , Stiles/Derek slash fic in the 22nd century</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Perfect Imperfections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a world where companion robots are the norm, is there space for true love?

A tinny ad ran on the tele-gram.

Do you want a wife who looks like Brigitte Bardot? The bubble letters flashed.

Yes!

Well you can have that, said a man’s soothing voice.

Do you want your wife to love giving blowjobs and having anal sex?

No more nagging, complaining, boring talks about her day?

I wish…

Your wish is our command.

In the wifeport 3000 , the voice over continued, you can get all the things you want without sacrificing any of the quality! Other robots don’t feel real, or react right especially when you’re having sex.

 Our synthetic skin is embedded with touch receptors which flush at the right time, giving the appearance of arousal. At the height of ejaculation, a computer program will engage the “O sequence” and tightens 2 times more strongly than the human vagina, giving you one of the best orgasms of all time.

Buy today in one of three customizable types: Adriana Lima, Brigitte Bardot and Cindy Crawford!

The advert finished.

In the 22nd century, love had been conquered just like death. After all, since robots now performed most of the low paying jobs, why not design sex robots for tired wives who had worked all day and didn’t want to have that quickie later that night?

And so the floodgates were opened, sex robots became the norm instead of the exception. One could see a robot in every house, in every bed.  On the street, men walked arm in arm with robots and a gentleman model 3,000 could be seen holding a lady’s bags as she walked from Neiman Marcus to Macy’s.

Better models even had robots who were programmed with their own interests, like reading the New York Times and shopping for cute throw pillows.

Why settle for your partner’s imperfections, the ads rolled, when you could have everything you ever wanted in one?

At first there were cries, “but it’s not real”; but as technology progressed, verisimilitude could be exchanged for reality. When the average person couldn’t tell the difference between robot and human, who could really judge?

Stiles didn’t know.

He had woken up cold this morning as he did every morning, his BF 2,000 plastered to his side. When turned on, the skin seemed warm and alive, but asleep one could not ignore the lie, or the subtle whirr of the cooling fans inside it.

Derek was still stick with his cum, the white liquid leaking from its open hole because it had not been told to clean itself up. Stiles carefully disengaged himself from the sleeping form, the arms that circled him too tightly, it felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He walked to his study on bare feet, his steps creaking against the wooden floor.

In the wooden cabinet of his study, first drawer, with the brass knobs lay an old leather scrapbook.

 No one really did scrapbooks anymore, when any picture you needed could be stored on the cloud and accessed by a touch of a finger on your holo portal, the leather bound books were seen as dinosaurs, iconic hipster emblems of a past long gone.

But Stiles did have one, passed down from his father John Stilinski, the scrapbook was filled with actual pictures of his great grandparents, his mother’s face when they got married, he could see her happiness leaking out of the page, her eyes sparkling as if she was alive,  but not quite.

Stiles flipped all the way to the back of the book.

_Derek_

 The real Derek, not the electric pale reflection of it.

The real Derek with the sparking brown eyes that creased as he grinned, the gruff manner, the long silences in communication. The real Derek who didn’t like to clean and struggled to talk about his feelings, who felt warm in his arms and his bed.

It was a candid picture, Derek was surprised by the burst of old fashioned light, his blue apron tied around his waist, eye brows furrowed as he stirred the red sauce with a wooden spoon.

He did not sit up straight, like a robot would. His face was not frozen in an eternal smile like the BF 2,000 he had stupidly named Derek.

It was a moment of quiet concentration, focus, as the light slanted from the western Stationary Picture windows in a red haze of the setting sun.

In the bottom, under the picture, he had printed in messy letters, “Derek in the Kitchen, March 14th 2125”.

Stiles swallowed. He thought of their fights, their parting of ways, and the seduction of the ads “Is there anything you’d like to change in your partner? Why can’t you have _everything you want?_  Don’t you deserve _perfection?_ ”

Stiles swallowed past the burning fire in his throat, he wished he knew then what he knew now, wished he had known enough to say no.

“I love him and all his perfect imperfections”

The morning sun was rising again, as it would always do so, even through heartbreak, Stiles’s feet were cold on the wooden floors.

From the other room, he could hear Derek BF2,000’s engines whirring as it woke.


	2. Noor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the underground prison of Noor, 103-47 gets a special treat.

 It was a massive brick building surrounded by a metal fence topped with spiral wires. One small turret peaked out from the top. To inmate 103-47, that turret held the crown jewel of Noor. The small turret room wasn’t much. Cobblestone floor, brick walls, a faded oriental rug for warmth. It was drafty and cold up there. But on one wall, stood the beauty. A hexagon window, its glass as translucent as drops of rainwater, looking over the city below.  103-47 doesn’t know why he loves this view so much. Noor doesn’t have much in the way of physical beauty. Below the window, tiny flickers of light extend their lambent glows over a dark soil landscape. The central lava pit boils. Inmates grumble as they shine the effluxur, the diamonds, and the precious stones for those who live above. 103-47 doesn’t remember what _aboveground_ looks like. He knows he used to know, can catch snatches of blue sky in his mind, but well, the extractors have taken it away. Whenever any prisoner enters the system, the extractor removes his or her memories of the lives they lived above, most prisoners here don’t even remember their original crimes.

103-47 knows that whatever he did must be awful because _How could anyone put an innocent person here?_

 The prison was not just one building but a complex of them patterned around the central fire pit that bubbled with lava day and night like a portal to hell. There were eight buildings, each more forbidding than the last. The dormitory was an old airplane hangar. However the airplanes had been replaced with shelves which lined the walls. Each shelf had a small bed and a metal railing at the edge like a crib wall. If an inmate tried to jump out of his “crib”, flashing red lights signaled a spray of purple chemicals from a nozzle placed under each shelf bed. The chemicals would immediately pacify the prisoner so he would know not to try to end his life again. Not while the government still had use of him. Everything one could need was here, the central office, a squat 2 story house made of gray slate, where prisoners got their working assignments each day.  The sorting house, where inmates sorted the rocks they dove deep into the earth to get, filled with showers so the miners could wash themselves clean, the dirt swirling into the drain like a mirage.

Yes, there were many buildings, but today 103-47 had earned a bit of freedom. He had mined more than his rock quota, so he was granted a bonus, a few minutes of free time and a dream. So with much reluctance he left the turret room, climbed down the stairs and walked to the Marketplace of Dreams.

The Prisoners of Noor did not dream. See, dreams were mostly pulled from your thoughts and experiences. Since the prisoners of Noor had no memory, they had no dreams, no past that had gone before to shape their thoughts. Nothing but empty black space stretching forever into infinity, until their bodies, too weak and feeble from the constant work buckled under the weight of the mines like an old horse. 44 the life expectancy was, they said.  

The only spot of color in Noor was the marketplace of dreams, with enough credits, one could buy a dream. Really they were recycled memories that the extractors had taken from different minds, but through them inmates could feel the heat of the sun, the taste of a strawberry gelado the first morning in spring. It was to this place, a blue house fitted with a wooden door, that 103-47 was headed to. 103-47 crossed the gravel ground, the rocks hurting his weak leather shoes and headed to the door. Lifting the brass salamander, 103-47 knocked twice. An old woman ushered him in.

“a 50 meret dream, please,” 103-47 asked.

The woman pointed to a few different pictures on the hologram reel. In the first one, a woman smiled at 103-47 with dark eyelashes  that opened to reveal starting blue eyes, in another a child with gossamer blond hair laughed, “daddy, daddy!” she chirped.

And there were beaches filled with sand, merry go rounds with electric spires, amusement parks, and rock concerts, but 103-47 always found himself drawn to the same one.

In it a man with dark hair and even darker eyes, stared at him, scruffy beard heavy with days old growth. He was standing at the door of some abandoned house that looked like it had been destroyed by a fire. His mouth said he didn’t want 103-47 there, but his eyes invited him in.

“You always choose the same one, “said the old woman, “I have skies, sunsets, and even one of the Taj Mahal, why don’t you pick one of them?”

103-47 shrugged, “I like this one.”

She plucked the image off the hologram wheel and placed it into a sealed glass jar. “Suit yourself”.

Three sirens sounded. It was time for bed. 103-47 picked his way back over the gravel path to the dormitory. He took the lowest of shelves, cradling the dream close to his heart, he could hear it tinkle against the sides of the glass jar.

Lights went out at 22:00.

103-47 opened the jar and let the dream merge inside him.

Always a man, he could never quite be sure of his name, David, Derek? Saying his a name that seemed to echo into 103-47’s soul. It might have been Stan? Stiles? Always pulling him in his arms, lips against lips, kisses.

 _Why did these kisses mean more than the others?_ 103-47 didn’t know, just like he no longer knew his name.

 

 

 

But whenever he woke up, he had a ghost of a smile on his lips and his cheeks were wet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, no one really commented last week. But anyway, I came up with this idea. 
> 
> Spoilers:  
> 103-47 is Stiles.
> 
> I prefer Stiles actually did commit a crime to get to Noor, but the choice of crime is up to the reader. I want this to be kind of open ended.


	3. Love in the time of ISIS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an original story, centering on two characters, Amira and Abdul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]  
> BY E. E. CUMMINGS  
> i carry your heart with me(i carry it in  
> my heart)i am never without it(anywhere  
> i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done  
> by only me is your doing,my darling)  
>  i fear  
> no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want  
> no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)  
> and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant  
> and whatever a sun will always sing is you
> 
> here is the deepest secret nobody knows  
> (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud  
> and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows  
> higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)  
> and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
> 
> i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Raqqa was unrecognizable. No longer were the sun dipped days of my youth, the bright colors, the flashes of hair peeking out through our hijabs, everything was stunned to silence. In the center of the square, a man with a ragged beard led a teaching of the Koran. A crowd gathered around him, their clothes muted black and gray, their faces were muted too.

Nothing remains of the old Raqqa since ISIS came. Fundamentalists riding up in their tanks, burning all the books, destroying all the doctor’s offices, whipping anyone who refused to chant “There is no god but Allah”. And I and my family were only trying to survive, blind our eyes to the atrocities in front of us. Breathe.

In the new Raqqa, if you were not part of the ISIS, you were a target. And so my brother went off to war to fight the faceless enemy of Western civilization, and my father’s hair turned stark white.

On my 21st birthday, I accepted the hand of an ISIS soldier in marriage. I did not want to marry him, but I had no choice. Marriage would bring security to my family, protection against being called infidels, mercy for my family. So I did what I had to do.

When I saw him on my wedding day, I was shocked. His eyes were the lightest brown I had ever seen dancing with joy and mischief. His face was unworn, un-roughened by the cares of life, mouth quirked in an unending smile.

When we went to bed the first night, he held my face in his large hands, “You don’t have to do this tonight”

And that was how he convinced me to love him.

It was a slow seduction, the hours we spent together on a sunlit porch, the teasing when he traced the freckles on my cheek, and the laughter we shared about Islamic poets, English literature. He was an English major before everything. Before the war. And he would hide Dickens novels in his pockets for me.  A tale of two cities was our favorite.

“It was the best of times and the worst of times” the first line read, and it seemed particularly fitting.

We’d read them together under candlelight in secret defiance.

Both of us were never in love with the war. So much fighting, so much bloodshed, and what for?

When I would ease him out of his boots as he got home, he would press his lips against my shoulder, like a man seeking penance at the end of the day. He’d sigh and I would know exactly what it was he felt, his heart so close against mine, his breath against my skin.

I would remember the feel of him forever after. The ghost of his lips would haunt me when I sat up alone on those lonely dark nights when the electricity because went out and I would trace his name in the window glass.

When he left for the last battle, I woke up early and cried in the shower.

Then I watched his sleeping body on our bed, he looked so innocent, so untouched then, and I wished it could be this way forever.

On my neck, I wore a small chain with the words engraved in a silver circle, “I carry your heart with me” by ee cummings.

On the day before he left, I took my chain off and enfolded it in his palm.

We never usually said we loved one another. After all we knew the marriage was arranged, right?  We couldn’t truly be in love. But I didn’t want him to die without knowing.

“I love you,” I said as I gave him my necklace, “please come back to me.”

He said nothing. We just let the moment hang in all its silent perfection.

 

It was three months later, three months in which I barely ate or slept, just prayed and fasted to Allah.

_Please Allah, O merciful, O loving, please, please bring him back to me._

The stupid man at the door. Dressed in black delivering me the message.

“Abdul is gone. He died fighting valiantly against the Americans as a suicide bomber”

I have never felt such emptiness and pain.

As in mourning, the knock came. Another man. Instead of the customary three days mourning period, I was told, “Do not be sad, your husband died a brave death”.

My hand gripped the knife I was cooking with and I saw red.

That day, I realized I had no future in Raqqa. My beautiful city bordered by the Euphrates river, the lush greens, the gorgeous edifices had become a prison.

So I escaped. First to Turkey, smuggled into a car in the dead of the night. I left behind my father, my mother, my siblings. I left death behind me to feast on sweeter flesh.

So I now I sit in my room in Turkey, the busy streets clatter with freedom, but my veil still covers my face. I call my parents every three months and say they disowned me, praying ISIS does not punish them for my escape.

At the bookstore, one day, my hand lingers on a Tale of Two Cities, even after all this time, a fist of pain burns in my throat and it is hard to breathe.

 Then, I hear a voice behind me.

“Amira?”

A shock goes through me like a thunderbolt, so intense, it feels as if my heart has stopped.

“Abdul?”

He looks older, his skin is no longer as unworn as it once was, the beard is new, but it is still him, his breath, his touch, his forehead on my shoulder the way it always was.

 “They told me you had died.”

“They lied. I pretended to die and then I ran away. They told us to shoot everyone in a village, men, women and children. I didn’t want to kill anymore”

His lips rest against my hair, “I have been praying to find you, love” he whispers.

There are many things I do not believe. I do not believe Allah is a god of death, of killing, of bombing, He is a good of light and life, a lamp of inestimable value, a jewel glittering from the corner of a room.

I do believe in this Allah, the god of mercy, of love, who answered my sobbing prayers in the nights and brought my heart back to me.

“Me too, Abdul. Me too”.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired loosely by this NY times article:  
> http://www.nytimes.com/2015/11/22/world/middleeast/isis-wives-and-enforcers-in-syria-recount-collaboration-anguish-and-escape.html?_r=0
> 
> And yeah, I went over by 81 words. :(


End file.
